Deception
by ElocinMuse
Summary: Would you trust your government? Even if the evidence pointed to its betrayal? Pre-tag speculation for next week's episode, "The Proof in the Pudding." Some spoilers.
1. Obscurity

**Author's Note: Got inspired by that awe-inspiring epic beast of a promo. This will be a series of four shots, and all are complete. So they should follow after one another pretty quickly. **

**I have read the sides, but only once, and I confess to taking some minor artistic liberties here and there. **

**Also, none of this reflects my personal opinions, and remains a work of fiction. **

**That said, ONWARD!**

* * *

Vision tunnels.

He surrenders to the one track mind he's become increasingly and intimately familiar with over the past five years.

All at once, all he can comprehend is her.

There's a barrier between them—and isn't there always? But this one is clear, and no less impenetrable. Her eyes seek him out from across the vast indoor room, all too briefly. Even with the distance separating them, her wariness is painful to witness.

She's cowering. And Booth wants to slaughter whatever caused such reaction from her.

He waves to her, trying to catch her attention in case she's somehow overlooked his predicament. But he knows better. He doesn't miss the slight, urgent shake of her head, warding him away. The look in her eyes makes his stomach twist in knots.

They're both too stubborn for their own good. He pulls out his cell phone and dials her number. In theory, because she is first on his speed dial. He sees her fumble and quickly cancel his call before shoving the cellular device back into her lab coat.

All the squints are huddled atop the platform, each one of them leaking tension like smoke. His gut expresses caution and concern. Warning bells go off in his ears, louder than before.

Fury is something he's familiar with. He knows it's a useful tool when the situation demands it. But when he reads the poorly veiled fear in his partner's eyes, that fury suddenly takes the form of a flaming sword in his arsenal.

He's been barricaded away from her. The glass doors stare back at him defiantly.

And so her often silent guardian prepares to unleash some noise.

He reverts to form. A heartbeat later, his sidearm is in his hand.

An explosion of thunder rocks the lab. A wall of glass shatters and falls like acid rain against the marble floor.

Booth ignores the stunned faces of the squints and serves no further delay as he steps determinedly over the threshold. Shards snap and crunch under his shoes, but offer little to no hindrance.

A hunter's eyes scope the surroundings and try to draw some reconnaissance from the situation. The lab is deathly silent compared to its usual beehive quality. Shadows on the upper walkways quickly snag his attention, though. The pounding of feet is amplified in his ears, because he's still in predator mode. Every sense hyper-aware.

Black clad men, speaking into earpieces, comb the upper path systems. Their movements are swift and controlled.

_ What is this? Night of the Living Suits? _At least back-up appears to have arrived…

This all registers with him in a manner of very few seconds.

His partner's warning shout registers next.

He's rushed from the side, and he has little time to assess his surprise opponent. An arm clamps around his neck from behind, constricting like a steel band. Booth wrestles out of the lock and subdues his attacker with a quick and brutal jab to the throat.

Now the true madness unfolds.

He whirls around—_get to Bones, get to Bones, get to Bones_—gun more firmly in hand, when a unit of darkly clad men pour in around him like locusts. Three from up top have made their way down. Seven suits total, including the one he's just taken down. Three remain above, but he can tell they aren't field trained. The others' voices fill his head and make the score even more unclear.

"Potential threat!"

"Intruder is armed and hostile!"

"Do not move!"

The squints are flooding from the platform like a sea of blue, their yells of protest a stark contrast to the cold observations of the black suits.

"Weapon is a .45!"

"Easily disposed, unknown suspect appears unhinged!"

Booth eases up, scanning the stern faces of what he assumes are either government agents or Men in Black. He raises his hands a little, but doesn't relinquish his gun. "Hey, hey, hey… take it easy."

All three men have their weapons leveled at him now. This fails to make him back down. Something feels wrong. The ones along the upper walkway observe emotionlessly.

"Lower your weapon!" one before him demands.

"Bones!" Booth calls out, dark eyes nearly black with focus as he unflinchingly surveys each man with a high-powered sidearm aimed straight for him. He needs to know what the hell is going on.

He takes a step forward, when a smaller suit rushes him.

They collide with a grunt, the air knocked from each their lungs. Both their sidearms skitter away from the impact. Booth hits the floor first, and he sees several things then, but not at once. First, a white flash and a fiery pain on the back of his head. Stars dot his vision then, winking off the metal beams high above his head. And then darkness creeps in, blinding him momentarily. He hears her voice in the back of his mind, and mumbles her name.

When his eyes open again, there's a fist sailing for his face. He dodges it and jumps to his feet, trading blows with the man before knocking him out cold with a knee to the temple. "What the hell is going on?" he growls.

Now he's ready to shoot everybody who's not a squint. Except he's lost his weapon.

Only moments have passed. The suits now assume vicious calm.

"Threat cannot be contained."

"Take him out."

Adrenaline pours through him. He hadn't exactly been looking for a fight. Taking out those two guys had been instinctual. He hadn't been the one to initiate attack.

Nevertheless, he hears the worrying sound of hammers being pulled back. He raises his arms a little higher, showing that he's done. There's been a misunderstanding.

But there's no balking from the suits. It becomes shockingly clear that each of them means him death.

_ Take him out._

"No!" a female voice shouts.

There's hesitation as a blue form rushes forward.

A dark-skinned man disregards her and repeats the order. "Shoot him."

Brennan tears across the floor, the protests of the other squints lost in the background to her cries. "No, stop! Please! _Please_! Don't," Brennan begs, her voice a desperate and panicked cry as this becomes her mantra.

He'd never heard that much desperation in her voice—higher than the scream in a New Mexican hospital.

Brennan throws herself in front of him, arms splayed. Her clear eyes are moist with fear, and her voice shakes when she speaks. "Please, he's my partner."

"Partner?" The dark-skinned man repeats with disinterest.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth," Booth glares back.

"He's with the FBI," Brennan finishes. She doesn't remove her protective shield from his form. Booth doesn't like it, but the suits had slightly lowered their weapons when she'd inserted herself into the path of crossfire. "I swear, he won't cause any more trouble or delays. And if you harm him in any way, I can promise you you'll get no more assistance from me." There's that harsh resolve. "Or my team, for that matter."

"You'd have to shoot us, too," Hodgins pipes up from the sidelines, surprising them all.

A silent stand-off commences.

"Mr. White." A wordless prod from Brennan.

Reluctantly, and too slowly for her liking, Mr. White lowers his weapon and nods at the other man to do the same. "Dr. Brennan," he begins, the warning in his tone obvious, "leash your pit-bull from this point on."

Brennan nods sagely. Booth crushes the urge to roll his eyes.

Mr. White regards his men—and the two starting to revive—and gives a meaningful jerk of his head in Booth's direction. "He doesn't leave. And seal off that gaping door."

* * *

**Next one on the way!**


	2. Secrets

Booth sinks into the welcoming sofa of the upper lounge. His inward groan quickly turns outward when he combs his fingers through his hair.

Brennan frowns sympathetically. "I'll get you an ice pack."

"I'll be fine, Bones. It's okay," he calls vainly after her already retreating form.

"No," she disagrees, reaching into the small freezer in the kitchen nook. "You and head wounds do not a good combination make."

"Thanks a lot."

She smiles a little as she makes her way back over to him with the pack. "You're only mad because you were taken down."

"Hey!" he huffs, sinking back into the cushions with defeat. "I wasn't expecting an ambush, okay?"

"Aren't snipers always prepared?"

His eyes wander away, aimless in their concentration. He gets quiet. "I was distracted, that's all."

Her brow tugs together. "By what?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Booth?" she prompts, easing into the cushions beside him. "By what?"

He meets her inquisitive gaze, raw emotion suddenly in his own. She feels her breath catch at the intensity of it. "I was worried about _you_," he says at last.

Her heart slowly inches up into her throat.

Booth remembers the sheer terror in which she'd shielded him, and feels his chest tighten.

When it becomes too much, he looks away. This time, he's the first to break. "Plus, you know, I thought they were the good guys."

Brennan nods, understanding in her eyes. "You wouldn't expect an attack from a paramedic at the scene of an accident."

"Right."

She frowns. "Except for that Halloween almost three years ago when one dressed up as a killer clown and tried to murder us with a shotgun. You, especially. He really didn't seem to like you."

Booth smiles wryly, a dry chuckle building in his throat. "I think we can both agree that was an anomaly. Don't you think?" He utilizes words from her vocabulary, and it makes her feel better for reasons she can't explain.

Brennan considers this. "Very true."

Booth heaves another sigh and leans heavily against the back of the couch. "I thought I was going to have to go for my knife," he mumbles after awhile.

"Wh—you have a knife on you?"

"Always," he says. "And another gun on my ankle."

Brennan shakes her head. "Booth, I hardly think a knife would hold merit against two guns."

His cold, calculated tone makes her shiver. "If I threw it at the first guy for a heart kill, the other would be surprised long enough for me to go for my gun. Then I'd take him out."

Her wide eyes regard him in alarm. "Booth," she whispers, her voice slowly rising, "they're _government_. Why—why would that even cross your _mind_? How—"

"Because they scare you," he cuts her off, and his voice is tense. "You're scared of them."

Her parted lips quiver. A little guiltily, her eyes turn downcast. Booth angles his head so he can meet them again.

They stare at one another for a long time.

"Good guys don't scare you, Bones," Booth gravely reminds.

Brennan exhales heavily, as though relieving some of the burden currently on her shoulders. She gives a tiny nod, mutely acknowledging the unsettling truth to his words.

"Hey," he nudges her eventually. "How 'bout that icepack?" He lightens the moment, gracing her with that crooked grin.

She laughs quietly, but there's little humor in it. Repositioning herself, she scoots closer to him for better access.

"Ouch," he says when her anxiety causes her to be a little forceful with the application.

"Sorry," she murmurs, pressing it more gently to his hair.

Booth watches her intense focus towards her task—which is pretty menial at best. She's trying to be useful in a way that's in her control. These bastards have brought her world down around her, they've invaded her lab and her domination and it kills him.

Carefully, her other hand rests over his clavicle to balance out the weight distribution.

"I can hold it," he offers.

"That isn't necessary."

Her voice is soft and restrained.

"You okay?" he broaches quietly.

Brennan's eyes flicker to his. "Fine," she smiles haltingly to reassure him. He reaches up to gently procure the pack from her hands. She's unable to refrain from combing two fingers through the hair at his temple before allowing her hands to fall at her sides. "I was just… worried, is all. I don't know."

He waits for her to go on, unwilling to force her anymore out of her comfort zone than she already is.

She frowns and bites down hard on her lip. "I thought…" she whispers.

Somehow, he knows exactly what's weighing so heavily on her mind. "I'm okay," he reassures. Brennan's eyes flick to him and she eventually nods, trying to accept this—trying to reassure herself, more than anything. "You know I'd never go without a fight," Booth attempts to cheer her up, a grin trying to break over his face.

"I know," Brennan agrees, letting out a shaky breath. She smiles a little in response to his. "You're a warrior, I haven't forgotten."

"Warrior?" he smiles, both amused and touched.

To his dismay, her eyes start to water. They rake over his form, drinking him in before arriving back on his concerned expression. "You came for me," she whispers.

He always did. But each time proved to instill fresh awe in her.

Brennan feels his fingers curl around hers. "I'm always right behind you, Bones."

With a watery sigh, she leans forward into him. Her forehead presses against the junction of his neck and shoulder and she squeezes her eyes shut in exhaustion, more of that burden evaporating when his arm wraps around her.

They sit in silence like this for a long time.

Booth drops his chin onto the crown of her head, his eyes gazing forward. "What can you tell me about them?"

Without opening her eyes, Brennan responds, "The three that remained up here during your break in are not field agents." He'd gotten that one right. "They're Intel, from what I've gathered."

"Grunts," Booth provides. "Hired suits."

_Spooks_, he thinks darkly.

"Yes, and it's possible they're handlers. Which makes the situation even more dire, because don't handlers never insert themselves into the operation? The two you took out at the door are the equivalent to agents, but rank higher than you of course. The other two are officers, much higher. But Mr. White seems to be the one in charge."

"Anything else?"

"Mr. Jones appears to know a variety of martial arts and Krav Maga. He took out the security guards."

"Okay. I know a little Krav. Some Maui Thai, too."

If she's surprised by his confession, it doesn't show. "Mr. White is an unknown. But by the way he carries himself, I'd conclude he suffered an adolescent tibia break. His limp isn't pronounced, but…"

Booth smiles knowingly, his thumb ghosting patterns over her arm. "Of course _you_ noticed it."

"Mmm," she hums tiredly, feeling at ease and at home.

Booth gives her shoulder a squeeze. "Good job, Bones," he mumbles into her hair.

She sighs. "Thank you."

* * *

**Last two will be up later tonight.**


	3. Veils

Her head is lolling worrisomely against his shoulder, and she hasn't said a word for a long time. Booth ducks his chin and speaks quietly, afraid of somehow disturbing her. "Bones, is everything all right?"

"You don't have to keep asking that. I think it's been established that everything is not all right."

"No, I mean with you. Physically."

Brennan pulls back from him slowly, head bowed, wisps of hair falling over her face. "Not really," she confesses. "I'm exhausted. I didn't sleep well last night, so I was going to rest in my office for awhile, but… you know." That she's admitting a weakness only amplifies his concern.

"You can rest now," he suggests.

"Here?"

"No, in your office. I'm sure you don't want to be unawares around these guys."

"Booth, I simply can't. You know they won't allow it. And… I don't like the idea of being unaware at all, even in the sanctity of my office, with these men around. I don't like them lurking in my lab."

"I understand that, Bones, I do," Booth consoles. "But you can't do good work when you're falling asleep on your partner's shoulder. Not that I mind, but…" There's a flicker of something in her eyes that makes him pause. "I can't imagine the spooks being particularly happy with mediocre work. Especially if it's going to take longer than necessary."

"That is true," she reluctantly concedes.

"And I'll stay with you, if it will make you feel better. I won't let anyone in and I'll keep an eye out here from your desk and wake you if anything new happens. You can't do anything more with the bones right now anyway. Hodgins has dibs."

Brennan considers his logical scenario, but can't help but be skeptical. "Do you think Mr. White will allow it?"

"I'll talk to Mr. White."

There's an undercurrent of malice in his tone that has her instantly balking. "Booth, please. Don't get yourself into more trouble. I don't think he likes you, and while my skills in reading people are questionable, he appears to be looking for any excuse to do away with you."

"Spooks hate G-Men," Booth agrees, not bothering to cloud the issue.

"Booth…"

"I'll be polite." His cocksure smile awakens her previously banked anger.

Brennan lets go with an exasperated cry that's somewhere between a sigh and a sob. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?!" she demands, voice rising both in octave and volume. Conscious of the pacing suits not far away from them, she makes an effort to quiet herself. "How many times do you think I can stand watching you die?" she hisses.

It is a confession in its purest form.

Booth is instantly contrite, expression falling at her despair.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. She looks away from him, lovely face contorted in reawakened emotional grief. He reaches for her and closes his hand over her wrist. "I'm sorry. Look, I promise I won't unnecessarily provoke him." At her lack of response, he goes on. "Bones, listen… neither one of us knows a whole lot about the situation, here. But I do know that it's best all around if you're at the top of your game. Both to find out the truth, and to look after yourself if something bad goes down."

"Fine."

That's all she says, and all he needs.

But he goes forth under protest, because he hates being the cause of that deeply hurt expression on her face.

* * *

"I need to talk to you."

"_Agent_ Booth," Mr. White makes sure to verbally desecrate the title. "I'm far too preoccupied with a little thing called national security to serve the attention of a loose cannon such as yourself."

"Your boys attacked me, pal," Booth shrugs. "Not my fault if I embarrassed them."

Mr. White maintains professional stoicism and ignores the jab. "You blasted through a door while in the attendance of highly classified matters."

"Because you locked it," Booth says as though the reason for his breaking in were obvious. Truthfully, he knows the reason of his minor meltdown dealt with the potential endangerment of his beautiful partner and not a locked door. But that isn't the point.

"Is there a purpose behind you wasting my time?"

"Bones needs a break."

"I'm not following."

"Shocker. Look, she's worn down. She'd like to take a short reprieve in her office, and I'm here to verbalize that request."

"Loose cannon _and_ intermediary. Does your trite range of skills ever cease? And what will you do in that time, Agent Booth?" Mr. White seems a combination of suspicious and suggestive.

"I'm not leaving her alone with the wolves running loose," Booth takes a step forward, voice lowering menacingly. "And you should know that Bones _is_ the solitary reason why I'm not laying waste to _you_… _and_ your posse."

Mr. White stands his ground considerably well, staring back unflinchingly at the man whom he's almost evenly matched in height. He stands a half-inch taller.

Booth's dark tone dissolves almost like the flipping of a light switch. "And you can't use me for anything. I'm not a scientist."

Mr. White doesn't budge. "We require Dr. Brennan."

"It won't do the report any good if Dr. Brennan is passed out on an autopsy table," Booth points out.

Mr. White glares impassively, but the silent debate taking place behind his black eyes is evident. Finally, he takes a single step forward, enunciating sternly before walking away. "You have one hour."

* * *

Bones sleeps restlessly on the couch in her office, tucked under a blanket he'd draped over her. From her desk, Booth scans the lab with calculated severity, monitoring the suits slither and stalk the chrome halls like circling sharks.

Brennan stirs, and his eyes travel back and comb over her weary, unconscious form with care. Ever alert, ever compassionate.

Ever loving.

As promised, he assumes his silent vigil over her.


	4. Deception

**Last one, folks. Thank you for all the reviews, guys! *hugs*  
**

* * *

All he can feel is the sinking in his stomach.

Because there's not enough time.

People had always suspected that, with that kind of rifle and recoil back then, there would be no possible way one person could perform that kind of feat. Two shots. Two rounds, so close together, with such precise accuracy.

Well, they didn't know Seeley Booth. He was sure he could do it.

And he'd been wrong.

When the moment arrives for him to utilize his role in the concocted reenactment, it suddenly hits him. The seconds the squints had said it'd taken had seemed a lifetime in the eyes of a sniper. So much could happen in that amount of time.

But not this.

He knows before it's time that there's no way he can do it. Not with this weapon.

He takes the shots anyway. Teeth bared in a grimace as the revolting knowledge fully consumes him.

Booth had once taken out seven widely scattered and mobile targets in less than nineteen seconds, from a distance further than twelve hundred feet. But he can't space two shots two seconds apart.

It's feasible now. Even commonplace. But back then, with this weapon, it was impossible.

The evidence doesn't lie. No matter how much, this time, he begs for the facts to be wrong.

* * *

"There's no way," Sweets is saying, pacing the room with long, errant strides. His head is shaking vehemently, and he's been arguing the logic of it and how the evidence is still inconclusive because of the sheer amount of variables involved. "Not to mention, with no disrespect intended, he's not the same shot he was fifteen years ago. Time is a factor."

Time is always a factor. But in this case, it's futile.

Sweets is wrong. Because Booth knows all too well that you don't just forget that sort of thing. It doesn't dilute, no matter how badly you might wish it did.

It's profound how he's ended up here.

His ancestor put a bullet in Lincoln's skull. And now everything's come full circle in a truly maudlin sort of way.

Hodgins is as animated as can be, but anyone can clearly see that it isn't a glowing sensation of being right on this conspiracy that lights his gaze. Five years ago, it might have. "Come on, Sweets! Even _he_ knows it's impossible!" His hand jerks in Booth's direction for emphasis.

Booth doesn't say anything. His world's been turned on its axis, and he truly knows now how his partner must feel.

Brennan steps forward then, her eyes glued meaningfully to her brooding partner before they settle over the rest of her team. Her tone is grave and resolute. "If there is _any_ human being alive who could make that shot… it would be Booth."

The verdict is uttered, and a chill settles over them all.

And they know.

_The government lied. They covered up one of the most infamous presidential assassinations of all time. _

Moments pass, intense in their silence. Then, without warning, Booth activates and turns from the group to stalk toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Cam asks, frightened of the answer.

"I'm an FBI Agent, and a crime has been committed," Booth responds darkly. There's a foreboding quality to the timbre. He's digging out his cuffs when he reaches the threshold and disappears through it. "I'm making an arrest."


End file.
